NineEleven
by HipsterMustache
Summary: A tribute to 9/11, and to those who lost their lives and loved ones. May they rest in peace.


_This is a tribute to those men, women, and children who lost their lives on September 11th, 2001._

_May your souls rest in peace._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia._

...

...

America stood, face grim, in front of the long list of names, holding a small piece of paper in his hands. He was wearing his bomber jacket, a loose t-shirt, and a pair of roughed up jeans. Staring at a list of names, of those lost, he reflected back.

It had been ten years since the attack. Some people had moved on and forgotten about that fateful day, with the exception most of the nation, and one certain hero, of course. It was damned near impossible to forget. His blue eyes scanned a list of what was simply a fraction of names for what must have been the thousandth time.

"So...many people...I'm so sorry..." He whispered, half to himself and half to those who could no longer hear him. He wasn't aware of the tears streaming down his face. Raising his hand to tap at the wetness he felt on his cheeks, he blinked.

"Heroes...don't cry." He murmured, staring at the liquid as though it were a foreign substance.

As he ran a hand along the bronze plate of names, he gave in and let the tears flow.

_'I guess...everyone has to cry sometime, even heroes.'_ He thought. Stuffing the folded paper in his pocket, he leaned onto the wall and let the tears flow harder and faster.

Even on the way here, there was a song on the radio that made him want to cry, by Darryl Worley. If memory served, it was called 'Have You Forgotten?'. Looking out to the side, he saw the list once more and swallowed thickly.

"Why...damnit, why?" He said, gritting his teeth. He could still remember that day, exactly what he was doing when he got the news...

**-Ten Years Previous...-**

"Haha, Iggy, you lose again!" America yelled gleefully, fistpumping. He'd beaten the Brit at Monopoly for probably the tenth or eleventh time. He'd lost count at seven.

"Bloody hell...this game is rigged!" England said, looking extremely irritated. America stuck his tongue out at the man.

"You just can't accept the fact that I, the hero, beat you~!" He cried, striking his signature pose, still gloating over his victories. Then he felt a sharp pain, almost a tug in his chest. His face going from extremely happy to troubled and pained in seconds, he quickly plopped down into a seat in his living room.

"Say, America...are you alright?" England asked, now worried. America shook his head.

"I...don't know, dude..." He said, furrowing his brows. Then he jumped as a loud buzzing noise coming from his pocket started to play. Pulling the phone from his jeans, he answered.

"Hello?" He asked, and got an immediate response.

"Mr. Jones, sir? I've called to inform you..." The man on the other end began, and England watched as America's face morphed from troubled, to pained, to horrified in a matter of seconds.

When America hung up, his face was grim and there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

"I...I'm being attacked, Iggy."

**-Current Day-**

"So many people...and I couldn't do anything..." He whispered, fists clenching so tight his knuckles turned a pasty white. His body was shaking, and he almost broke down into sobs.

"I just...wish I could have done more..." He murmured, taking deep breaths and attempting to calm down. But alas, he couldn't. All he could think about was the terrible wreckage, all because of a few terrorists.

He remembered how he felt that everything was going wrong, and how life itself would end. He remembered watching on the television, the debris strewn all over what would soon be called Ground Zero. He remembered all of this, no matter how hard he tried to erase the memory.

America was about to slide to the floor, before he felt a gentle, familiar hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay, Alfred."

Turning around, emerald green eyes met teary sky blue ones, and a mutual feeling was shared as America hugged England. Normally, he wouldn't be doing this, but there was a special exception at hand. Only England had seen America at some of his more vulnerable points. One more wouldn't hurt, right?

Once he had calmed down enough to stop crying, he turned back to the list and ran his hand over it once more.

"I'll be back next year..."

And with that, he dug into his pocket, around his wallet and keys. He finally grapsed it, pulling it out, and unfolded the paper, setting it down. Then he walked out with England, happy to see the sunlight on the outside.

No matter what, life would move on. He'd never forget, and he smiled and started to drag England to the nearest McDonald's as the two walked off, hand in hand.

A small, creased piece of paper was laid on the ground next to the list. It read:

'I'll miss you. See you next year, dudes. Rest in peace.'

...

...

_So much has changed in ten years. We've killed Osama, we've made memorials, we've changed as a nation in whole. _

_But never forget those who died in the attacks. And also, the brave passengers on the flight that crashed into a Pennsylvania field, and the flight that crashed into the Pentagon._

_Amen._

_Edit: Sorry about the error at the top, I was typing this and talking to my little brother at the same time. I fixed it, though._


End file.
